Despite growing up in Buffalo, I have always hated summer. As a child, the sun gave me migraines, the amusement park was torture, and a trip to the beach inevitably brought out the water spider bites I was terribly allergic to. People who leave out "fair" city always say they miss the change of seasons, but global warming seems to have destroyed spring and fall - its snowing one day and the next week its 85 degrees. I'll sit in front of my new portable air conditioner, thanks. And as someone who totes along a pair of 42DDs everywhere she goes (and who can't afford the breast reduction without insurance covering it, which they won't), I damn all of you to hell with your spaghetti straps.

Your advice is just too good, far too sensible and soul-enhancing. And wasted, because this person is too intent on self-pity and, by her own account, too self-limiting in her choices ever to do herself any good. A new Fran Leibowitz. Like we needed another, or even one, of those.

I thought the real hero of the piece was the tiny cancer survivor dancing on the table while our heroine complained, again, of food poisoning. Apparently we're supposed to identify with her, and it's amazing, from these letters, how many do. And Salon bought it all, thinking it was humor.

As to why anyone who might possibly not like the piece would read (or skim) it, it's the slow motion car crash effect. Sometimes you just can't look away. You have to know how bad it can get.

And if it's Salon, it can get pretty bad.

I go out into the humidity and wonder how there can actually be people who LIKE this weather. Of course, I once stood in back of my house one February, in 5 pm darkness, 35 degrees with sleet, and thought, God, this is great!

I thought it was hilarious.

Nerds like yours truly will always prefer a fresh, crisp October day where we're not pressed to jump through the summertime hoops.

I read parts of this article to my wife. At the end of three paragraphs she had her hands over her ears and was making "la-la-la" noises, begging me to stop.

She was the reason we resubscribed. Now she no longer wants anything to do with it.

Salon has suffered an approximately two-thirds subscription drop since the ascension of Joan Walsh. It's what's not here anymore, but it's also what's replaced it.

I kind of hate weekends.

Too short to do anything useful, just long enough to ruin your routine.

I hate summer AND I hate the beach too! There, that feels better.

I also dislike summer, and I don't have especially large breasts. (I really don't think this is a prerequisite for this attitude.)

I find summer banal. That is the worst thing about it, and it also encompasses everything that anyone can say about it. After the surprise and delight of Spring, and before the long bittersweet elegy of autumn, the long, monotonous drone of summer lacks all imagination and subtlety. Even plants are bored, just sitting there converting sunshine to chlorophyll and waxing dully pregnant with some orotund fruit.

People who like summer are just as banal and vegetal. It is a socially-acceptable thing to like, is summer, and no one needs to think of why they like it, because everybody does (supposedly). People who like TV and shopping malls and cars also like summer. It is a season made for middlebrow consumers. The unimaginative can accept that it is good to be hot and sweaty, and to occasionally plunge into water, and to eat really bad food, always served at the wrong temperature. If these people were not told what to like, they would not like anything at all, and would probably just stay home and stare at the wall.

So to summer I say Piffle. And when I say Piffle, I mean Piffle!

It's a simple, light hearted article about every day life. Why you all gotta be hatin so much? I'd say some of the people leaving comments here are the same Nazis who plan company picnics and run 'fun' summer camps for kids. And yes, I just used the term Nazi. Why don't you all jump all over me for being disrespectful towards history?

Now then.... I was just wondering the other day if there is such a thing as seasonal affective disorder for summer. Maybe it's because I was raised on a farm, and, instead of symbolizing a season of freedom and road trips and cookouts, summer vacation was an opportunity for my parents to enforce slave labor and require weed pulling or weed chopping every day. No, not weed pulling in the garden. Weed pulling in a dusty acre of field corn that was taller than my head and full of buzzing creatures of all sorts. No breeze penetrates. The air is sticky with pollen. Blades of corn leaves are literally drawing blood. Hands are blistered from pulling or legs are chopped up and bleeding from the many times I 'missed' with the huge machete that was half as long as my body. Just the thought of it makes me want to hole up in my cool, dark bedroom for two days.

Yup.... Nebraska. Still here, still trying to defy the weather. When will I learn? Did you know that in Denmark they don't even have screens on their windows because they don't have any bugs in the summer? Oh man.... Heaven is a Scandinavian country.

First off, to me summer is just another season I shlep to the office, only hotter and muggier. Weekends here in Maryland-D.C. area have very hot, very humid, and we have the Asian tiger mosquito which bites night AND day and is very aggressive. Screw summer.

Give me Autumn, with breezy days and cool nights, no mosquitos, everything quieting down in preparation for winter, yet beautiful. Most of all, give me Halloween! You can keep your 4th and your fireworks; me, I prefer trick or treaters and scary yards.